Memento Mori
by cuckoo clover
Summary: Remember that you have to die. One day, you will be gone. One day, you will be forgotten, and the legacies you leave in this realm will be left to rot. He, the Kingdom of the Franks, was always afraid of this truth. So he will do whatever it took for him to stay in power. Even if it meant killing his kings. Written for aphabriefhistoryoftime event on Tumblr. THEMES OF DEATH/MURDER


_**Written for aphabriefhistoryoftime on tumblr. Yeah it's a lot of angst here. If you're looking for sunshine and rainbows, then wow have you stumbled to the wrong place.**_

 _ **Please note that I am not a historian, so if there were any mistakes in regards to history, please let me know, and that will be noted.**_

 _ **This fic is set during and after the Treaty of Verdun, which marked the end of the Carolingian civil war. It split the Carolingian Empire into 3 territories, East, Middle, and West Francia, and in most cases I've seen marked the end of the kingdom of the Franks. Some say that the Kingdom of the Franks never ended, however, and instead evolved into Modern France and Germany. In my interpretation, the Treaty of Verdun is the**_ **official** _ **death of the kingdom of the Franks, and so he died entirely when the last king of the Carolingian Dynasty (Charlemagne's dynasty) died.**_

 _ **For all of you wondering what Frank looks like, he looks like Odin Grina**_

 _ **East Francia/Karl- HRE/Germany**_

 _ **Middle Francia/Lothairinga- original OC**_

 _ **West Francia- France**_

 _ **I headcanon France and Germany as related, which is partially thanks to a comic, btw. Put this after the standard Deviantart URL ( one):**_ ** _/hacate/art/89-Through-the-Fire-261792007_**

* * *

 _Treaty of Verdun. August, 843 A.D._

 _Verdun-sur-Meuse, Carolingian Empire._

Memento mori.

Remember that you have to die. One day, you will be gone. One day, you will be forgotten, and the legacies you leave in this realm will be left to rot.

Even nations, no matter how prosperous or deific they were, submit to this rule and fall. From fresh, new nations too prone to death, to ancient empires that crumbled at its own power.

He, the Kingdom of the Franks, was always afraid of this truth. That any memory of him will fade into oblivion once he's gone. When will this happen? How? Due to this fear, he lived by Carpe Diem. To seize every day to the best of his ability, in hopes that by doing so, his legacy will live on further.

But now, his end his end was near. Too near. The pain inside his skull pulsed in the torment of civil war. The war between Louis the Pious's three sons tore his sanity and mind apart. If not careful, they could divide his land. He could not live past this war, he could not. It was a feeling deep down his guts, instinct, that told him that nevermore will he be an empire.

He had lived past several other civil wars. This one shouldn't drive him to the absolute breaking point yet, it shouldn't. It was too early. Rome had a legacy of over a millennium, his own had not lasted half as long. Why would he, a warrior, a conqueror like him, perish under the hands of his own rulers? It was not right. He was a nation, he was strong. He will emerge, alive. No matter what it took.

As the quill stained the surface of the parchment, he gripped tighter onto his dagger. Frank's forehead was damp, and his lungs ache for air. Fear rattled deep within him. How come? He told his gentle self. This was no different than on the battlefield.

If they died, he would live.

Screw your courage to the sticking place, he scolded. It will be like in battle. A stab at the heart or better, the head, and it will be over. It didn't matter if they were his kings. He was their nation, and only he will say in who lives and who dies.

The dagger's handle pained his palm as he gripped it and welled up his nerve. As the other members of the court watched them, he shifted to behind the last of the sons who signed the parchment. Slipping a bit of the dagger out its sheath, he squeezed his eyes together and pulled it over his head.

With all his might, he brought the blade down. A grip held his wrist up above their heads.

When he flung his eyes open, he saw a court member and a guard stopping his blade from descending. Fury burning within him. he yelled and struggled as the court members gasped in shock at the spectacle.

Not yet. Not yet! One movement and he will live. He will not go gently yet!

He…

He...

The furious fire dissipated as a hollow feeling filled him. His mind went blank, and the room spun.

The paved floor below him rippled, and he lost his footing as all the nerves in his body collapsed.

The treaty. He had been too late. The sons had signed the treaty during the commotion. As he fell, he saw three boys clad in white linen, appearing behind each of the sons.

His head hit the stone floor, and a crack wrecked through his skull. There was some commotion in the room, drowned out by an uncomfortable buzz. The light of the room darkened. While his head throbbed harder, he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Frank groaned as he came to, and winced in pain at the pain at the back of his head. His head was wrapped up in a bandage, and as he looked around, he realised that he was placed back into his chamber. A hollow, nauseous feeling washed over his entire self. He didn't feel like anything alive.

He knew why. The three boys behind each of Louis the Pious's sons had confirmed his worst fears.

Never before were there other personifications of his kingdom than him. It was always just himself, and his watchdogs of kings, dukes, and princes.

Now, he was back into his room. The grey granite of the castle room was dyed a cold, indigo blue of twilight. It was midnight when he became unconscious. How long had it been since then? The quiet was not right either. Only the trees and wind outside rustled and howled. He had been changed into a linen nightgown. His silken clothes sat beside him, with his sword in its scabbard resting on top. The dagger was removed.

Frank's head collided with the pillow. He was so pathetic. Was a scratch of the quill against parchment what had ended him? Was-

The sound of stone scraping against shoe echoed in the room.

He spun his eyes towards where the noise came from. While he was worn down, his senses honed from his hunting days were still sharp. A shadow in the far end corner that hid away from the window's light. He peered, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. A ripple of white linen stood out in contrast of the dark.

The same clothes that each of the boys wore.

"Come out, all three of you," he ordered. His voice came out scratchier than he had expected, but it was clear enough to work. There was some shuffling in the shadows, before one of them came out, the dying sun illuminating him.

He was a spitting image of when he was a child. Blonde hair, his fog blue eyes, everything. On closer inspection, Frank realised his mistake. Judging from the round quality of her face, it was a girl.

"You… you are the Kingdom of the Franks," she whispered, voice like the breaths of wind. This child had a lighter voice. Two children and a girl.

"Yes." In response, she gripped her nightdress, clearly wiping the sweat off of her palms on the linen.

"I-I am Middle Francia." The way she had said it told him that she was instructed to say it. Like as if he was a dying man who was supposed to pass his wisdom to his heirs. Fools, if they thought that was the last of him.

By now, the other two children came out also. West and East Francia, he presumed. They were dead ringers for the girl, though they were both clearly boys. He squinted. If the girl looked like him when he was a child, the two boys looked closer. One of them had blue eyes the shade of spring skies that sparked with a certain warm kindness. He had seen those eyes before-

oh, no. No no no. Those were Gaul's eyes. What cruel joke was this? Brung back to haunt him- Frank snapped himself out of it. The boy's kingdom probably included Gaul's land. It happened. When a child personification inherits the land of a previous personification, they would always inherit some kind of trait from them, whether if they were related or not.

The other boy had lighter hair, but paler eyes. Frank frowned. He resembled Alemanni, the tribe that was annexed into the kingdom. They both had an expression of nervousness, but the first one had a clearer expression of uncertainty, the lighter haired one tried to hide it with sternness and courage.

A buzzing sensation filled his ears. The room spun. Before they could continue, the room around him turned blurry, and everything blacked out.

* * *

To his shock, he didn't die straight away.

Why? After the treaty, it should have been the end of him. Unless it meant that fate decided to spare him a while longer.

Every dawn, he hoped for a chance that the ruler would come to his senses and reunite the empire. Every dusk, that wishful fulfillment was left to dust. Every day, that hope would fade more and more, until it rotted into bitter anger.

Such an easy task. He should have risen up. Frank glanced down at his hand. He twitched a finger, but a migraine and a nauseous sensation filled his head. His ears rang. With all of his strength, he lifted his hand up, ignoring the sick feeling that came with it.

Not even a foot up, his nerves collapsed, and his hand fell back onto the duvet. Frank welled up all of his strength again, but his mind fogged, and he collapsed back before he drifted back into unconsciousness.

Every day, his strength weakened, and more humiliation filled him every time.

* * *

Every day, all he could do was lie down, and watch as the sunrise turn to the sunset, midnight turn to noon, and the Summer turn to the Winter.

It drove him insane. How long had it been since he had 'died'? All conception of the time was lost. Only the sun and the moon told him how long. How many times did the sun set and the moon rise? A lot. What had happened to his kingdom outside of this cell?

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic. What had become of him? A respected empire now bedridden.

This was not the end of him. He will not allow it.

* * *

Day. Night. Sunrise. Noon. Sunset. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Watch.

Day. Night. Sunrise. Noon. Sunset. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Watch.

Day. Night. Sunrise. Noon. Sunset. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Watch.

And repeat.

* * *

A scream pierced the night. He had enough.

Frank grabbed his sword that was sheathed in the scabbard. He pulled out the weapon, and with all his gathered might, stood up.

He squeezed his eyes shut at a migraine. The strong pulse like he had bashed his head into an iron church bell, but he gripped his sword tight. The stone floor shattered his knees, and a spike of pain pierced his abdomen. A scream of pain escaped.

When he opened his eyes, blood dyed black spilled on the moonlit floor.

A guard had carried him back. He wanted to struggle against it, but his mind was too fogged to do anything. Stop it. Stop this! He wanted to say, but the pain in his head pulsed.

For the night, shameless tears were shed. Pathetic.

* * *

The event was a slap in his face of how much he withered since. He wanted to forget about it. He didn't want it to happen again.

Since then, more people came into the room, mostly maids. For the first time, a maid peeked her head through a gap of the door, her eyes wide. The whole time she stayed inside, she shivered. As if he was a resting dragon with unimaginable power. She had a duster with her, as well as a cognac bottle and some cloth.

She pulled back the cover. With shaky hands, she applied the cognac onto his wound. It stung, but Frank stayed silent.

Now that they knew he was not of any threat, the maids would no longer shiver. Instead, they hummed, as if they were alone, cleaning in their own homes.

The wound would not heal. It clotted, but it wouldn't harden.

* * *

To his disgust, sometimes it was one of the three children who entered. As the maids grew more and more used to him, they visited more often.

West Francia, who called himself Francis, was the one who visited him the most. East Francia visited him also, but it was to console with him with politics, warfare, and advice of the court. He even chose his name to be Karl, after his ruler Charlemagne, the one who had started his golden years of the Carolingian Renaissance. Francis simply told him of his day to day life.

At first, he was a little disgusted. Was he the heir to his land? A ruler should be strong and battle worthy. He hated being pitied, which was why Francis talked to him. For a while, he resented him, and so didn't pay attention to what he was saying.

One day, he reminded himself- he was a child.

What did he do when he was his age? He didn't care about becoming an empire back then, he just lived as he did. His desire to become an empire came only when Clovis I suggested it to him.

It was better having company and someone to talk to rather than rot on a bed. Before he knew it, he started to look forward to his visits. It took his mind off of his current state and allowed him to simply let be, to actually enjoy himself for once, even if it was just listening to him speak.

"Frank… is it lonely up here?"

Lonely? More like stuck in the labyrinth of his own thoughts to compensate for the months of being bedridden.

"Yes. I suppose." The way he said it touched him a little, how he thought enough of him to ask this.

One time, Karl stopped when he saw Francis already talking to him. With envy in his eyes, Karl backed out.

Already was East Francia focused on glory, while his brother was focused on the little things in life. What did he focus on when he was a child?

He focused on living his life. Playing with his brothers, hunting game in the cool, green glade. Never did he want to become an empire in the first place… it was only at the suggestion of Clovis II that it grew into a desire.

What stood out to him was that only once did Francis call him a father, and that was only when he first began visiting him. It was opposed to Karl, but he had a feeling that it was more towards duty than an actual connection.

He couldn't call himself one either. A father should be a parent who protected his kids, no matter the cost. He was too young to be one. His empire lasted for less than a millennia. He doubted that he reached 20 physically.

Frank remembered his father, Germania, a whispered legend amongst his siblings. He did his best in raising them all. It was not a glamorous upbringing, he wasn't by their side all the time, but he was always there when he needed him. Always there to guide him.

But now he couldn't even stand up. He was a crippled man. Yet he still had the audacity to call him their father?

Francis' visits thinned in quantity, from every day slipping to every week to every month, from hours worth of conversations to quick recaps of what had happened. Now, it had been a year since he last saw him.

* * *

One day, it was not Francis, nor Karl, nor the maids which came in, but a girl.

A girl with blonde, braided hair appeared behind the door. She was clad in fine clothes and armour, so it could not be one of the maids.

Middle Francia. Frank realised that it had been a long time since he had seen her.

"Can you please teach me?" She whispered. She hung her head down in a way that told him she feared him.

"Teach you what?"

"Fighting strategies." Fighting strategies?

"Is that all?"

"Yes. I want to be able to defend myself from invaders." That was a new reason. Unlike Karl who learnt battle techniques for the opposite reason.

"Defend from who?" Her eyebrows knitted into a frown as she looked down and chewed her lip.

"I've forgotten what they were called." She was lying. Perhaps it was because she was too prideful to say who. He used to do that.

"Forgotten? Then learn their names. To fight an enemy, you need to know your enemy enough, find a weak place, and target that." She nodded, her features tense, before she looked to the floor, thinking. Frank remembered how he'd ask his father for defense strategies, and plan it out in his head just like her. The girl reminded him of himself more so than he had thought.

"Your land contains the centre of my kingdom, correct?"

"Yes." The centre of his kingdom contained his homelands before he became an empire. No wonder she reminded him of himself.

Frank realised that she had never told him what his human name was. "Have you picked out a name for yourself yet?"

"No. But I'm named Lotharingia rather than Middle Francia now."

For the rest of the afternoon, they discussed defense strategies- she was reluctant to learn offense strategies.

Finally, she did a small bow. "Thank you for your time," she bid. Without a second word, she left.

When the door clicked close, he resumed into his limbo.

* * *

He hoped that either Lotharingia or Francis was visiting the next time the door creaked open. To his surprise, it was Karl. But Karl was lacking the air of focus in his eyes. Something was wrong.

"How's your sister? I haven't heard from her in a while." At the word sister, Karl tensed up. Frank rose an eyebrow at the act, and a pang of horror struck him. It couldn't be. Was she dead?

Karl placed a bloody knife onto the bed.

"I... I am the true heir of the Franks. Right?"

Lothairingia's land contained his homelands.

Karl must've felt the cold stare down his neck. He backed away as Frank tensed.

"Did you kill her?" He growled. Karl's head shakes released tension from within his head, but the audacity of the attempt left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I... I-I'm-"

"Leave," he commanded. "Take your blade with you." Karl staggered back to the door. He looked away from his gaze, his blonde fringe sticking to his sweaty, pasty forehead before he reached the handle and left.

The red stain remained a horrid copper smell that started to fill the room. Frank dug his nose into the pillow to muffle it.

So that was what they were concerned of the most. Whether or not they were his true heir! A dreaded feeling in his gut, instinct, told him that Francis desired the same. What he had thought were Francis' comforting words were now techniques to win over his favour. What he had thought were questions of a nation were now methods to surpass him.

Was that all they cared about? Being the true heir? No wonder Lotharingia asked him of fighting strategies. No wonder she never mentioned the names of the invaders. Because they were the ones who attacked. She never even pick out a name for herself!

Was this the fate of the ones less fortunate than oneself? In the act of becoming great, people below perish? He never thought much about war. Something about Lotharingia's death snapped his heartstrings in half. He thought of how he and his siblings fought. Was this why Germania was never there?

For the night, he allowed himself to be in sorrow. The next time he regained consciousness, his temples were wet.

* * *

But the world outside of the castle walls moved on. He longed to be out there. Under the sun as the smell of trees blew with the wind, into the forest catching game, swimming in the lakes cool from the shade, but instead, he was stuck in this miserable fucking hellhole.

He sighed. What good was it to resist that urge to swear? Eternal damnation in exchange for just one curse word? He'd take that any day.

Was this what he deserved? Under Clovis I, he converted to Christianity and set out to convert the rest of Europe as well, to free people of the so-called damnation. Yet people who died because of him.

Gaul. Saxon... he had told himself that it was for the good of Europe. Now that he witnessed an attempted fratricide, he wondered if it was worth it.

There were rumours that Rome was still alive. Was he rotting somewhere like him, begging for death to take him swiftly? Drifting from consciousness to unconsciousness, too tired to care?

He mused for a while longer. His eyelids grew heavy, and he fell back to sleep.

* * *

The sensation was as if a pail of cold water was splashed onto him. He was dry, lest for sweat that glued his hair and clothes onto his skin, but awake, as if he had woken from a dreaded dream.

A maid pouring him water yelped in surprise and spilt some drops of water onto the bed.

His head was spinning as if he was sick. Sick… he hadn't felt that way for years. Tired? Yes. But that was a lack of feeling. Right now, he felt alive. Sick, sure, but alive and breathing. Frank actually felt alive. Heaving in, breath by breath, the cold air shocked and rejuvenated his lungs. The maid flinched when he looked her way, gripping her water jug tight.

What had happened that made him feel so alive? Frank heard chatter and music from downstairs. A celebration? He connected the event of the celebration to him awakening… was his empire reunited? Frank ordered the maid to fetch his clothes and got dressed, and cursed at his feeble knees and ankles as he went down the stairs. Being bedridden for years, his bones ached and wobbled all over. Before he could reach the end, his knees collapsed. He gripped onto the iron railings to stop himself from crashing downwards but hissed in pain as his knees crashed into the cobblestone stairs.

He forgot his pain when in the dim light, the bones of his hands pressed white against his skin. When did his hands turn so thin? Feeling his face, he noted the loss of softness in the cheeks. Around his eyes, his cheeks, it was bony. He felt his chin and frowned at his beard. Even when he didn't shave, his beard hadn't grown much. Had his limbo stopped it?

The sound of lutes and gossip caught his attention. Frank noticed the door in front of him. Standing up, he opened it and flinched at the bright lights.

Nobody stopped when he entered the room. Compared to the greens, reds, and blues of the guests, Frank's clothes had faded into a grey colour. As he made his way through the crowd, Frank realised that he didn't recognise anyone attending the party. All the noblemen, noblewomen, he swore he could see some resemblance to people at the court he had known. How many generations had he skipped?

Until he saw a flash of blonde in the crowd. It was his capital Aachen.

"Aachen?"

Said capital turned around. He stared blankly, like if he was a stranger.

"Aachen. It's me."

Aachen gasped as his forehead turned white as if he had seen a ghost. He couldn't blame him, he had been bedridden for decades. He must've thought that he was dead.

It was strange to see him now. While it had only been 40 years since he had last seen him, the city in question had grown his hair a bit longer. He cleared his throat and placed his goblet on the table.

"A lot has changed since the treaty," he muttered, looking away. "This is Charles the Fat's coronation."

"Fat?"

"Yeah, look at him. He's... " Aachen stopped and cleared his throat. "Big." Frank looked forward, and the King was indeed fat, big was an understatement. Even now, Aachen was still cowardly and soft-spoken.

"Did the kingdoms reunite?"

"There was no more heir for the West, so he was crowned King." So it was something by chance that he was resurrected, but in no way was it an attempt to revive him.

His eyes wandered across the coronation, recognising nobody until he saw Francis. Francis had grown taller and grew his hair longer to his shoulders. His eyes wandered around, and he saw Karl, who had trimmed it into a neat bowl cut. Francis was joking with some other nobles, his capital focused on a book, while Karl was talking with his own capital. The two stood away from each other. A larger divide between the two has formed since he had last seen them.

Karl caught a glimpse of him but was distracted by another court member. Barely a glimpse. Like he couldn't be bothered with.

He frowned at Lotharingia's absence. Where was she? It seemed only yesterday since that dreaded day, yet still, the court members joked like nothing had happened. Was she too unwell for the coronation? At such a young age?

Memento mori. Remember that you have to die. No matter what you are, the world moved on. Like him. He was a ghost that no one, not even his former capital, recognised. His role in the narrative was over. No longer was he in charge of the narrative, but he was now a bystander who could only watch as the world unfolded before him.

Was this why people pass away? Because the final chapter of their narrative was finished. There was nothing left for them to tell, and so the world moves on from them.

Perhaps the dream of becoming a mighty Empire like Rome was a luxury only a few could afford. To be remembered, admired. But maybe even Rome one day will be forgotten. People used to praise him back when he was recognised. But look at him now. Maybe it will take much, much longer, but Rome, too, will be forgotten to time's abyss.

Frank admitted that it had been a decent life.

* * *

Once Charles had died, he was resumed into becoming bedridden.

Not even fate had decided to revive him. The last few years were a test of the waters, to see if he was still viable as a nation. Apparently not.

At last, he felt a twinge within him. In Greek myth, the sisters cut the strings of souls who were due for the Underworld. A nation had one for each citizen within them. Whenever they break, they were unnoticeable, nothing more than the pain of a hair being pulled out. Over the course of centuries, as fewer people aligned themselves as a member of his nation, the strings had been pulled out one by one. Until at last, there was only one strand left.

Frank sighed in relief as the last connection snapped within him. It was the last King, Louis V. He was waiting for that one to break. A nation's people was everything. He now understood that the condition of leaving your roots to let them start new ones was a consensual one. And now, his time had come.

Perhaps it was the very nature of nations like him. No matter how powerful, it was always the most unexpected and simple route that brought them to their demise. Rome, though mighty and grand, fell at his own power. Even after Hellenising the world, Greece's empire eventually fell apart due to its size. His demise was not as mighty, or grand, but rather, as a result of some scratches of ink on the paper.

What was born of flames die in flames, and what was born of dirt die of dirt. He had lived for centuries as an empire, so long that he had forgotten his origins as a group of tribes by the Rhine. Wouldn't living a life of flame mean that one would end in them?

The sound of a door swinging open shocked him out of his thoughts, and he spun his eyes around.

True to his prediction, Francis stood, his blonde hair brushed into a small ponytail. This was the first time that he had seen him in decades. He cleared his throat.

"They call me Frank now."

"Frank?"

"Or France. I-I'm still calling myself Francis, though." His voice was shaky as if he was aware that this meant that it was the end of him. Already his legacy had become his, became a part of him. Already had those who called themselves the Franks thought of Francis rather than him as their leader. Frank simply nodded.

"l see. Karl?" Francis frowned a little in response.

"Well… he named himself the Holy Roman Empire." His title. His name. The Holy Roman Emperor was a name that Charlemagne had been appointed to. And now… now his name was given to his successor. Both of his names were taken. It was funny. Karl, the successor who dreamt of glory, inherited his title, while Francis, the successor who didn't focus on that as much inherited his original name.

"Francis, listen," he croaked.

"Hm?"

"My time… it has come to an end," His vision was darkening, and a feeling in his gut, instinct, told him that it was today.

"An end?" He nodded.

"It's time for me to leave." He groaned and felt the muscles in his neck loosen. Francis knelt down and held his skeletal hand, worn out compared to his own, before stroking it. Frank frowned, remembering his tactics to win his affections. "I know you want to be my true successor."

A gasp escaped out of Francis. He sighed, as he searched for an answer. "I… I want to be loved. Admired. Like you." Love. Admiration. Ironically both concepts that his reign had lacked. Did anyone love him? Did anyone admire him? No.

"I was never loved or admired, Francis. No one remembers me now. Unless you rise to the glory of Rome himself, unless you reconquer all of Europe again, you will forever be stuck in the shadow of the greats. Forever you will be forgotten by history as just another impersonator." Realising his muscles were tense, he lied back down. "Look at me, for example. Does anyone still admire me?"

"I admire you! Karl-"

"I am respected only because I mimicked Rome. But what else is there? Tell me!" He scolded. Francis took a step back. Frank calmed down as a headache rose. "If you want to be loved, don't follow my footsteps. More than one nation wants to rise to the glory of Rome, but few succeed." There were so many more things he wanted to say. Who will admire you once they forget you? And even if your legacy was admired, what good was it to lead more people to the hopeless endeavour of fame? He chose to stay quiet. "I doubt that they were loved because of it. Understood?"

"... I-"

"Yes or no, do I have to repeat myself?"

"No, you don't. I understand." Frank's features relaxed.

"Good."

When he lied back and closes his eyes, a small smile formed on the side of his mouth. His vision darkened much faster than usual, but not of drowsiness.

Death was easier than falling asleep. With sleep, you had to be drowsy first. With death, you simply lie back and let be.

* * *

 _ **I'm still unsure about the date that Frank died tho. I think that it wouldn't be at the death of the last Carolingian specifically, but until people didn't see themselves as part of the original Carolingian Empire anymore. I just found out that the Capetian Dynasty is the dynasty that succeeded the Carolingian Dynasty, and they saw themselves as Frankish. So I could just mark Frank's death with the date of the last ruler's death, right? Well nope, cause this dynasty ended during the French Revolution. Just imagine the comedy!**_

" _ **Francis. Listen. My time… it has come to an end."**_

" _ **You've been dying and saying that for 900 years now oh my lord"**_

 _ **Thank you for reading!**_


End file.
